Glimpses of Bengal by Sir Rabindranath Tagore

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those distant villages used to appear, like dark green clouds. To-day thewhole of the wood is visible.

Land and water are gradually approaching each other like two bashfullovers. The limit of their shyness has nearly been reached--their armswill soon be round each other's necks. I shall enjoy my trip along thisbrimful river at the height of the rains. I am fidgeting to give the orderto cast off.

SHELIDAH,

_4th July_ 1893.

A little gleam of sunlight shows this morning. There was a break in therains yesterday, but the clouds are banked up so heavily along the skirtsof the sky that there is not much hope of the break lasting. It looks asif a heavy carpet of cloud had been rolled up to one side, and at anymoment a fussy breeze may come along and spread it over the whole placeagain, covering every trace of blue sky and golden sunshine.

What a store of water must have been laid up in the sky this year. Theriver has already risen over the low _chur_-lands,[1] threatening tooverwhelm all the standing crops. The wretched ryots, in despair, arecutting and bringing away in boats sheaves of half-ripe rice. As they passmy boat I hear them bewailing their fate. It is easy to understand howheart-rending it must be for cultivators to have to cut down their rice onthe very eve of its ripening, the only hope left them being that some ofthe ears may possibly have hardened into grain.

[Footnote 1: Old sand-banks consolidated by the deposit of a layer ofculturable soil.]

There must be some element of pity in the dispensations of Providence,else how did we get our share of it? But it is so difficult to see whereit comes in. The lamentations of these hundreds of thousands ofunoffending creatures do not seem to get anywhere. The rain pours on as itlists, the river still rises, and no amount of petitioning seems to havethe effect of bringing relief from any quarter. One has to seekconsolation by saying that all this is beyond the understanding of man.And yet, it is so vitally necessary for man to understand that there aresuch things as pity and justice in the world.

However, this is only sulking. Reason tells us that creation never can beperfectly happy. So long as it is incomplete it must put up withimperfection and sorrow. It can only be perfect when it ceases to becreation, and is God. Do our prayers dare go so far?

The more we think over it, the oftener we come hack to thestarting-point--Why this creation at all? If we cannot make up our mindsto object to the thing itself, it is futile complaining about itscompanion, sorrow.

SHAZADPUR,

_7th July_ 1893.

The flow of village life is not too rapid, neither is it stagnant. Workand rest go together, hand in hand. The ferry crosses to and fro, thepassers-by with umbrellas up wend their way along the tow-path, women arewashing rice on the split-bamboo trays which they dip in the water, theryots are coming to the market with bundles of jute on their heads. Twomen are chopping away at a log of wood with regular, ringing blows. Thevillage carpenter is repairing an upturned dinghy under a big_aswatha_ tree. A mongrel dog is prowling aimlessly along the canalbank. Some cows are lying there chewing the cud, after a huge meal off theluxuriant grass, lazily moving their ears backwards and forwards, flickingoff flies with their tails, and occasionally giving an impatient toss oftheir heads when the crows perched on their backs take too much of aliberty.

The monotonous blows of woodcutter's axe or carpenter's mallet, thesplashing of oars, the merry voices of the naked little children at play,the plaintive tune of the ryot's song, the more dominant creaking of theturning oil-mill, all these sounds of activity do not seem out of harmonywith murmuring leaves and singing birds, and all combine like movingstrains of some grand dream-orchestra, rendering a composition of immensethough restrained pathos.

SHAZADPUR,

_10th July 1893._

All I have to say about the discussion that is going on over "silentpoets" is that, though the strength of feeling may be the same in thosewho are silent as in those who are vocal, that has nothing to do withpoetry. Poetry is not a matter of feeling, it is the creation of form.

Ideas take shape by some hidden, subtle skill at work within the poet.This creative power is the origin of poetry. Perceptions, feelings, orlanguage, are only raw material. One may be gifted with feeling, a secondwith language, a third with both; but he who has as well a creativegenius, alone is a poet.

PATISAR,

_13th August 1893._

Coming through these _beels_[1] to Kaligram, an idea took shape in mymind. Not that the thought was new, but sometimes old ideas strike onewith new force.

[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--Sometimes a stream passing through theflat Bengal country encounters a stretch of low land and spreads out intoa sheet of water, called a _beel_, of indefinite extent, ranging from alarge pool in the dry season to a shoreless expanse during the rains.

Villages consisting of a cluster of huts, built on mounds, stand out hereand there like islands, and boats or round, earthen vessels are the onlymeans of getting about from village to village.

Where the waters cover cultivated tracts the rice grows through, oftenfrom considerable depths, giving to the boats sailing over them thecurious appearance of gliding over a cornfield, so clear is the water.Elsewhere these _beels_ have a peculiar flora and fauna of water-liliesand irises and various water-fowl. As a result, they resemble neither amarsh nor a lake, but have a distinct character of their own.]

The water loses its beauty when it ceases to be defined by banks andspreads out into a monotonous vagueness. In the case of language, metreserves for banks and gives form and beauty and character. Just as thebanks give each river a distinct personality, so does rhythm make eachpoem an individual creation; prose is like the featureless, impersonal_beel_. Again, the waters of the river have movement and progress; thoseof the _beel_ engulf the country by expanse alone. So, in order to givelanguage power, the narrow bondage of metre becomes necessary; otherwiseit spreads and spreads, but cannot advance.

The country people call these _beels_ "dumb waters"--they have nolanguage, no self-expression. The river ceaselessly babbles; so the wordsof the poem sing, they are not "dumb words." Thus bondage creates beautyof form, motion, and music; bounds make not only for beauty but power.

Poetry gives itself up to the control of metre, not led by blind habit,but because it thus finds the joy of motion. There are foolish persons whothink that metre is a species of verbal gymnastics, or legerdemain, ofwhich the object is to win the admiration of the crowd. That is not so.Metre is born as all beauty is born the universe through. The current setup within well-defined bounds gives metrical verse power to move the mindsof men as vague and indefinite prose cannot.

This idea became clear to me as I glided on from river to _beel_ and_beel_ to river.

PATISAR,

_26th (Straven) August 1893._

For some time it has struck me that man is a rough-hewn and woman afinished product.

There is an unbroken consistency in the manners, customs, speech, andadornment of woman. And the reason is, that for ages Nature has assignedto her the same definite role and has been adapting her to it. Nocataclysm, no political revolution, no alteration of social ideal, has yetdiverted woman from her particular functions, nor destroyed theirinter-relations. She has loved, tended, and caressed, and done nothingelse; and the exquisite skill which she has acquired in these, permeatesall her being and doing. Her disposition and action have becomeinseparably one, like the flower and its scent. She has, therefore, nodoubts or hesitations.

But the character of man has still many hollows and protuberances; each ofthe varied circumstances and forces which have contributed to his makinghas left its mark upon him. That is why the features of one will displayan indefinite spread of forehead, of another an irresponsible prominenceof nose, of a third an unaccountable hardness about the jaws. Had man butthe benefit of continuity and uniformity of purpose, Nature must havesucceeded in elaborating a definite mould for him, enabling him tofunction simply and naturally, without such strenuous effort. He would nothave so complicated a code of behaviour; and he would be less liable todeviate from the normal when disturbed by outside influences.

Woman was cast in the mould of mother. Man has no such primal design to goby, and that is why he has been unable to rise to an equal perfection ofbeauty.

PATISAR,

_19th February 1894._

We have two elephants which come to graze on this bank of the river. Theygreatly interest me. They give the ground a few taps with one foot, andthen taking hold of the grass with the end of their trunks wrench off anenormous piece of turf, roots, soil, and all. This they go on swingingtill all the earth leaves the roots; they then put it into their mouthsand eat it up.

Sometimes the whim takes them to draw up the dust into their trunks, andthen with a snort they squirt it all over their bodies; this is theirelephantine toilet.

I love to look on these overgrown beasts, with their vast bodies, theirimmense strength, their ungainly proportions, their docile harmlessness.Their very size and clumsiness make me feel a kind of tenderness forthem--their unwieldy bulk has something infantile about it. Moreover, theyhave large hearts. When they get wild they are furious, but when they calmdown they are peace itself.

The uncouthness which goes with bigness does not repel, it ratherattracts.

PATISAR,

_27th February 1894._

The sky is every now and then overcast and again clears up. Sudden littlepuffs of wind make the boat lazily creak and groan in all its seams. Thusthe day wears on.

It is now past one o'clock. Steeped in this countryside noonday, with itsdifferent sounds--the quacking of ducks, the swirl of passing boats,bathers splashing the clothes they wash, the distant shouts from droverstaking cattle across the ford,--it is difficult even to imagine thechair-and-table, monotonously dismal routine-life of Calcutta.

Calcutta is as ponderously proper as a Government office. Each of its dayscomes forth, like coin from a mint, clear-cut and glittering. Ah! thosedreary, deadly days, so precisely equal in weight, so decentlyrespectable!

Here I am quit of the demands of my circle, and do not feel like a woundup machine. Each day is my own. And with leisure and my thoughts I walkthe fields, unfettered by bounds of space or time. The evening graduallydeepens over earth and sky and water, as with bowed head I stroll along.

PATISAR,

_22nd March 1894._

As I was sitting at the window of the boat, looking out on the river, Isaw, all of a sudden, an odd-looking bird making its way through the waterto the opposite bank, followed by a great commotion. I found it was adomestic fowl which had managed to escape impending doom in the galley byjumping overboard and was now trying frantically to win across. It hadalmost gained the bank when the clutches of its relentless pursuers closedon it, and it was brought back in triumph, gripped by the neck. I told thecook I would not have any meat for dinner.

I really must give up animal food. We manage to swallow flesh only becausewe do not think of the cruel and sinful thing we do. There are many crimeswhich are the creation of man himself, the wrongfulness of which is putdown to their divergence from habit, custom, or tradition. But cruelty isnot of these. It is a fundamental sin, and admits of no argument or nicedistinctions. If only we do not allow our heart to grow callous, itsprotest against cruelty is always clearly heard; and yet we go onperpetrating cruelties easily, merrily, all of us--in fact, any one whodoes not join in is dubbed a crank.

How artificial is our apprehension of sin! I feel that the highestcommandment is that of sympathy for all sentient beings. Love is thefoundation of all religion. The other day I read in one of the Englishpapers that 50,000 pounds of animal carcasses had been sent to some armystation in Africa, but the meat being found to have gone bad on arrival,the consignment was returned and was eventually auctioned off for a fewpounds at Portsmouth. What a shocking waste of life! What callousness toits true worth! How many living creatures are sacrificed only to grace thedishes at a dinner-party, a large proportion of which will leave the tableuntouched!

So long as we are unconscious of our cruelty we may not be to blame. Butif, after our pity is aroused, we persist in throttling our feelingssimply in order to join others in their preying upon life, we insult allthat is good in us. I have decided to try a vegetarian diet.

PATISAR,

_28th March 1894._

It is getting rather warm here, but I do not mind the heat of the sunmuch. The heated wind whistles on its way, now and then pauses in a whirl,then dances away twirling its skirt of dust and sand and dry leaves andtwigs.

This morning, however, it was quite cold--almost like a cold-weathermorning; in fact, I did not feel over-enthusiastic for my bath. It is sodifficult to account for what veritably happens in this big thing calledNature. Some obscure cause turns up in some unknown corner, and all of asudden things look completely different.

The mind of man works in just the same mysterious fashion as outsideNature--so it struck me yesterday. A wondrous alchemy is being wrought inartery, vein, and nerve, in brain and marrow. The blood-stream rushes on,the nerve--strings vibrate, the heart-muscle rises and falls, and theseasons in man's being change from one to another. What kind of breezeswill blow next, when and from what quarter--of that we know nothing.

One day I am sure I shall get along splendidly; I feel strong enough toleap over all the obstructing sorrows and trials of the world; and, as ifI had a printed programme for the rest of my life tucked safely away in mypocket, I am at ease. The next day there is a nasty wind, sprung up fromsome unknown _inferno_, the aspect of the sky is threatening, and Ibegin to doubt whether I shall ever weather the storm. Merely becausesomething has gone wrong in some blood-vessel or nerve-fibre, all mystrength and intelligence seem to fail me.

This mystery within frightens me. It makes me diffident about talking ofwhat I shall or shall not do. Why was this tacked on to me--this immensemystery which I can neither understand nor control? I know not where itmay lead me or I lead it. I cannot see what is happening, nor am Iconsulted about what is going to happen, and yet I have to keep up anappearance of mastery and pretend to be the doer....

I feel like a living pianoforte with a vast complication of machinery andwires inside, but with no means of telling who the player is, and withonly a guess as to why the player plays at all. I can only know what isbeing played, whether the mode is merry or mournful, when the notes aresharp or flat, the tune in or out of time, the key high-pitched or low.But do I really know even that?

PATISAR,

_30th March 1894._

Sometimes when I realise that Life's journey is long, and that the sorrowsto be encountered are many and inevitable, a supreme effort is required tokeep up my strength of mind. Some evenings, as I sit alone staring at theflame of the lamp on the table, I vow I will live as a brave manshould--unmoved, silent, uncomplaining. The resolve puffs me up, and forthe moment I mistake myself for a very, very brave person indeed. But assoon as the thorns on the road worry my feet, I writhe and begin to feelserious misgivings as to the future. The path of life again seems long,and my strength inadequate.

But this last conclusion cannot be the true one, for it is these pettythorns which are the most difficult to bear. The household of the mind isa thrifty one, and only so much is spent as is necessary. There is nosquandering on trifles, and its wealth of strength is saved up withmiserly strictness to meet the really big calamities. So any amount ofweeping and wailing over the lesser griefs fails to evoke a charitableresponse. But when sorrow is deepest there is no stint of effort. Then thesurface crust is pierced, and consolation wells up, and all the forces ofpatience and courage are banded together to do their duty. Thus greatsuffering brings with it the power of great endurance.

One side of man's nature has the desire for pleasure--there is anotherside which desires self-sacrifice. When the former meets withdisappointment, the latter gains strength, and on its thus finding fullerscope a grand enthusiasm fills the soul. So while we are cowards beforepetty troubles, great sorrows make us brave by rousing our truer manhood.And in these, therefore, there is a joy.

It is not an empty paradox to say that there is joy in sorrow, just as, onthe other hand, it is true that there is a dissatisfaction in pleasure. Itis not difficult to understand why this should be so.

SHELIDAH,

_24th June 1894_.

I have been only four days here, but, having lost count of the hours, itseems such a long while, I feel that if I were to return to Calcuttato-day I should find much of it changed--as if I alone had been standingstill outside the current of time, unconscious of the gradually changingposition of the rest of the world.

The fact is that here, away from Calcutta, I live in my own inner world,where the clocks do not keep ordinary time; where duration is measuredonly by the intensity of the feelings; where, as the outside world doesnot count the minutes, moments change into hours and hours into moments.So it seems to me that the subdivisions of time and space are only mentalillusions. Every atom is immeasurable and every moment infinite.

There is a Persian story which I was greatly taken with when I read it asa boy--I think I understood, even then, something of the underlying idea,though I was a mere child. To show the illusory character of time, a_faquir_ put some magic water into a tub and asked the King to take adip. The King no sooner dipped his head in than he found himself in astrange country by the sea, where he spent a good long time going througha variety of happenings and doings. He married, had children, his wife andchildren died, he lost all his wealth, and as he writhed under hissufferings he suddenly found himself back in the room, surrounded by hiscourtiers. On his proceeding to revile the _faquir_ for hismisfortunes, they said: "But, Sire, you have only just dipped your headin, and raised it out of the water!"

The whole of our life with its pleasures and pains is in the same wayenclosed in one moment of time. However long or intense we may feel it tobe while it lasts, as soon as we have finished our dip in the tub of theworld, we shall find how like a slight, momentary dream the whole thinghas been....

SHELIDAH,

_9th August 1894._

I saw a dead bird floating down the current to-day. The history of itsdeath may easily be divined. It had a nest in some mango tree at the edgeof a village. It returned home in the evening, nestling there againstsoft-feathered companions, and resting a wearied little body in sleep. Allof a sudden, in the night, the mighty Padma tossed slightly in her bed,and the earth was swept away from the roots of the mango tree. The littlecreature bereft of its nest awoke just for a moment before it went tosleep again for ever.

When I am in the presence of the awful mystery of all-destructive Nature,the difference between myself and the other living things seems trivial.In town, human society is to the fore and looms large; it is cruellycallous to the happiness and misery of other creatures as compared withits own.

In Europe, also, man is so complex and so dominant, that the animal is toomerely an animal to him. To Indians the idea of the transmigration of thesoul from animal to man, and man to animal, does not seem strange, and sofrom our scriptures pity for all sentient creatures has not been banishedas a sentimental exaggeration.

When I am in close touch with Nature in the country, the Indian in measserts itself and I cannot remain coldly indifferent to the abounding joyof life throbbing within the soft down-covered breast of a single tinybird.

SHELIDAH,

_10th August 1894._

Last night a rushing sound in the water awoke me--a sudden boisterousdisturbance of the river current--probably the onslaught of a freshet: athing that often happens at this season. One's feet on the planking of theboat become aware of a variety of forces at work beneath it. Slighttremors, little rockings, gentle heaves, and sudden jerks, all keep me intouch with the pulse of the flowing stream.

There must have been some sudden excitement in the night, which sent thecurrent racing away. I rose and sat by the window. A hazy kind of lightmade the turbulent river look madder than ever. The sky was spotted withclouds. The reflection of a great big star quivered on the waters in along streak, like a burning gash of pain. Both banks were vague with thedimness of slumber, and between them was this wild, sleepless unrest,running and running regardless of consequences.

To watch a scene like this in the middle of the night makes one feelaltogether a different person, and the daylight life an illusion. Thenagain, this morning, that midnight world faded away into some dreamland,and vanished into thin air. The two are so different, yet both are truefor man.

The day-world seems to me like European Music--its concords and discordsresolving into each other in a great progression of harmony; thenight-world like Indian Music--pure, unfettered melody, grave andpoignant. What if their contrast be so striking--both move us. Thisprinciple of opposites is at the very root of creation, which is dividedbetween the rule of the King and the Queen; Night and Day; the One and theVaried; the Eternal and the Evolving.

We Indians are under the rule of Night. We are immersed in the Eternal,the One. Our melodies are to be sung alone, to oneself; they take us outof the everyday world into a solitude aloof. European Music is for themultitude and takes them along, dancing, through the ups and downs of thejoys and sorrows of men.

SHELIDAH,

_13th August 1894._

Whatever I truly think, truly feel, truly realise,--its natural destiny isto find true expression. There is some force in me which continually workstowards that end, but is not mine alone,--it permeates the universe. Whenthis universal force is manifested within an individual, it is beyond hiscontrol and acts according to its own nature; and in surrendering ourlives to its power is our greatest joy. It not only gives us expression,but also sensitiveness and love; this makes our feelings so fresh to usevery time, so full of wonder.

When my little daughter delights me, she merges into the original mysteryof joy which is the Universe; and my loving caresses are called forth likeworship. I am sure that all our love is but worship of the Great Mystery,only we perform it unconsciously. Otherwise it is meaningless.

Like universal gravitation, which governs large and small alike in theworld of matter, this universal joy exerts its attraction throughout ourinner world, and baffles our understanding when we see it in a partialview. The only rational explanation of why we find joy in man and natureis given in the Upanishad:

For of joy are born all created things.

SHELIDAH,

_19th August 1894._

The Vedanta seems to help many to free their minds from all doubt as tothe Universe and its First Cause, but my doubts remain undispelled. It istrue that the Vedanta is simpler than most other theories. The problem ofCreation and its Creator is more complex than appears at first sight; butthe Vedanta has certainly simplified it half way, by cutting the Gordianknot and leaving out Creation altogether.

There is only Brahma, and the rest of us merely imagine that we are,--itis wonderful how the human mind should have found room for such a thought.It is still more wonderful to think that the idea is not so inconsistentas it sounds, and the real difficulty is, rather, to prove that anythingdoes exist.

Anyhow, when as now the moon is up, and with half-closed eyes I amstretched beneath it on the upper deck, the soft breeze cooling myproblem-vexed head, then the earth, waters, and sky around, the gentlerippling of the river, the casual wayfarer passing along the tow-path, theoccasional dinghy gliding by, the trees across the fields, vague in themoonlight, the sleepy village beyond, bounded by the dark shadows of itsgroves,--verily seem an illusion of _Maya_; and yet they cling to anddraw the mind and heart more truly than truth itself, which isabstraction, and it becomes impossible to realise what kind of salvationthere can be in freeing oneself from them.

SHAZADPUR,

_5th September 1894._

I realise how hungry for space I have become, and take my fill of it inthese rooms where I hold my state as sole monarch, with all doors andwindows thrown open. Here the desire and power to write are mine as theyare nowhere else. The stir of outside life comes into me in waves ofverdure, and with its light and scent and sound stimulated my fancy intostory-writing.

The afternoons have a special enchantment of their own. The glare of thesun, the silence, the solitude, the bird cries, especially the cawings ofcrows, and the delightful, restful leisure--these conspire to carry meaway altogether.

Just such noondays seem to have gone to the making of the ArabianNights,--in Damascus, Bokhara, or Samarkhand, with their desert roadways,files of camels, wandering horsemen, crystal springs, welling up under theshade of feathery date groves; their wilderness of roses, songs ofnightingales, wines of Shiraz; their narrow bazaar paths with brightoverhanging canopies, the men, in loose robes and multi-coloured turbans,selling dates and nuts and melons; their palaces, fragrant with incense,luxurious with kincob-covered divans and bolsters by the window-side;their Zobedia or Amina or Sufia with gaily decorated jacket, widetrousers, and gold-embroidered slippers, a long narghilah pipe curled upat her feet, with gorgeously liveried eunuchs on guard,--and all thepossible and impossible tales of human deeds and desires, and the laughterand wailing, of that distant mysterious region.

ON THE WAY TO DIGHAPATIAYA,

_20th September 1894._

Big trees are standing in the flood water, their trunks wholly submerged,their branches and foliage bending over the waters. Boats are tied upunder shady groves of mango and bo tree, and people bathe screened behindthem. Here and there cottages stand out in the current, their innerquadrangles under water.

As my boat rustles its way through standing crops it now and then comesacross what was a pool and is still to be distinguished by its clusters ofwater-lilies, and diver-birds pursuing fish.

The water has penetrated every possible place. I have never before seensuch a complete defeat of the land. A little more and the water will beright inside the cottages, and their occupants will have to put up_machans_ to live on. The cows will die if they have to remainstanding like this in water up to their knees. All the snakes have beenflooded out of their holes, and they, with sundry other homeless reptilesand insects, will have to chum with man and take refuge on the thatch ofhis roof.

The vegetation rotting in the water, refuse of all kinds floating about,naked children with shrivelled limbs and enlarged spleens splashingeverywhere, the long-suffering patient housewives exposed in their wetclothes to wind and rain, wading through their daily tasks with tucked-upskirts, and over all a thick pall of mosquitoes hovering in the noxiousatmosphere--the sight is hardly pleasing!

Colds and fevers and rheumatism in every home, the malaria-strickeninfants constantly crying,--nothing can save them. How is it possible formen to live in such unlovely, unhealthy, squalid, neglected surroundings?The fact is we are so used to bear everything, hands down,--the ravages ofNature, the oppression of rulers, the pressure of our _shastras_ towhich we have not a word to say, while they keep eternally grinding usdown.

ON THE WAY TO BOALIA,

_22nd September 1894._

It feels strange to be reminded that only thirty-two Autumns have come andgone in my life; for my memory seems to have receded back into the dimnessof time immemorial; and when my inner world is flooded with a light, as ofan unclouded autumn morning, I feel I am sitting at the window of somemagic palace, gazing entranced on a scene of distant reminiscence, soothedwith soft breezes laden with the faint perfume of all the Past.

Goethe on his death-bed wanted "more light." If I have any desire left atall at such a time, it will be for "more space" as well; for I dearly loveboth light and space. Many look down on Bengal as being only a flatcountry, but that is just what makes me revel in its scenery all the more.Its unobstructed sky is filled to the brim, like an amethyst cup, with thedescending twilight and peace of the evening; and the golden skirt of thestill, silent noonday spreads over the whole of it without let orhindrance.

Where is there another such country for the eye to look on, the mind totake in?

CALCUTTA,

_5th October 1894._

To-morrow is the Durga Festival. As I was going to S----'s yesterday, Inoticed images being made in almost every big house on the way. It struckme that during these few days of the Poojahs, old and young alike hadbecome children.

When we come to think of it, all preparation for enjoyment is really aplaying with toys which are of no consequence in themselves. From outsideit may appear wasteful, but can that be called futile which raises such awave of feeling through and through the country? Even the driest ofworldly-wise people are moved out of their self-centred interests by therush of the pervading emotion.

Thus, once every year there comes a period when all minds are in a meltingmood, fit for the springing of love and affection and sympathy. The songsof welcome and farewell to the goddess, the meeting of loved ones, thestrains of the festive pipes, the limpid sky and molten gold of autumn,are all parts of one great paean of joy.

Pure joy is the children's joy. They have the power of using any and everytrivial thing to create their world of interest, and the ugliest doll ismade beautiful with their imagination and lives with their life. He whocan retain this faculty of enjoyment after he has grown up, is indeed thetrue Idealist. For him things are not merely visible to the eye or audibleto the ear, but they are also sensible to the heart, and their narrownessand imperfections are lost in the glad music which he himself supplies.

Every one cannot hope to be an Idealist, but a whole people approachesnearest to this blissful state at such seasons of festivity. And then whatmay ordinarily appear to be a mere toy loses its limitations and becomesglorified with an ideal radiance.

BOLPUR,

_19th October 1894._

We know people only in dotted outline, that is to say, with gaps in ourknowledge which we have to fill in ourselves, as best we can. Thus, eventhose we know well are largely made up of our imagination. Sometimes thelines are so broken, with even the guiding dots missing, that a portion ofthe picture remains darkly confused and uncertain. If, then, our bestfriends are only pieces of broken outline strung on a thread ofimagination, do we really know anybody at all, or does anybody know usexcept in the same disjointed fashion? But perhaps it is these veryloopholes, allowing entrance to each other's imagination, which make forintimacy; otherwise each one, secure in his inviolate individuality, wouldhave been unapproachable to all but the Dweller within.

Our own self, too, we know only in bits, and with these scraps of materialwe have to shape the hero of our life-story,--likewise with the help ofour imagination. Providence has, doubtless, deliberately omitted portionsso that we may assist in our own creation.

BOLPUR,

_31st October 1894._

The first of the north winds has begun to blow to-day, shiveringly. Itlooks as if there had been a visitation of the tax-gatherer in the_Amlaki_ groves,--everything beside itself, sighing, trembling,withering. The tired impassiveness of the noonday sunshine, with itsmonotonous cooing of doves in the dense shade of the mango-tops, seems toovercast the drowsy watches of the day with a pang, as of some impendingparting.

The ticking of the clock on my table, and the pattering of the squirrelswhich scamper in and out of my room, are in harmony with all other middaysounds.

It amuses me to watch these soft, grey and black striped, furry squirrels,with their bushy tails, their twinkling bead-like eyes, their gentle yetbusily practical demeanour. Everything eatable has to be put away in thewire-gauze cupboard in the corner, safe from these greedy creatures. So,sniffing with an irrepressible eagerness, they come nosing round and roundthe cupboard, trying to find some hole for entrance. If any grain or crumbhas been dropped outside they are sure to find it, and, taking it betweentheir forepaws, nibble away with great industry, turning it over and overto adjust it to their mouths. At the least movement of mine up go theirtails over their backs and off they run, only to stop short half-way, situp on their tails on the door-mat, scratching their ears with theirhind-paws, and then come back.

Thus little sounds continue all day long--gnawing teeth, scampering feet,and the tinkling of the china on the shelves.

SHELIDAH,

_7th December 1894._

As I walk on the moonlit sands, S---- usually comes up for a businesstalk.

He came last evening; and when silence fell upon me after the talk wasover, I became aware of the eternal universe standing before me in theevening light. The trivial chatter of one person had been enough toobscure the presence of its all-pervading manifestation.

As soon as the patter of words came to an end, the peace of the starsdescended, and filled my heart to overflowing. I found my seat in onecorner, with these assembled millions of shining orbs, in the greatmysterious conclave of Being.

I have to start out early in the evening so as to let my mind absorb thetranquillity outside, before S---- comes along with his jarring inquiriesas to whether the milk has agreed with me, and if I have finished goingthrough the Annual Statement.

How curiously placed are we between the Eternal and the Ephemeral! Anyallusion to the affairs of the stomach sounds so hopelessly discordantwhen the mind is dwelling on the things of the spirit,--and yet the souland the stomach have been living together so long. The very spot on whichthe moonlight falls is my landed property, but the moonlight tells me thatmy _zamindari_ is an illusion, and my _zamindari_ tells me thatthis moonlight is all emptiness. And as for poor me, I remain distractedbetween the two.

SHELIDAH,

_23rd February_ 1895.

I grow quite absent-minded when I try to write for the _Sadhana_magazine.

I raise my eyes to every passing boat and keep staring at the ferry goingto and fro. And then on the bank, close to my boat, there are a herd ofbuffaloes thrusting their massive snouts into the herbage, wrapping theirtongues round it to get it into their mouths, and then munching away,blowing hard with great big gasps of contentment, and flicking the fliesoff their backs with their tails.

All of a sudden a naked weakling of a human cub appears on the scene,makes sundry noises, and pokes one of the patient beasts with a cudgel,whereupon, throwing occasional glances at the human sprig out of a cornerof its eye, and snatching at tufts of leaves or grass here and there onthe way, the unruffled beast leisurely moves on a few paces, and that impof a boy seems to feel that his duty as herdsman has been done.

I fail to penetrate this mystery of the boy-cowherd's mind. Whenever a cowor a buffalo has selected a spot to its liking and is comfortably grazingthere, I cannot divine what purpose is served by worrying it, as heinsists on doing, till it shifts somewhere else. I suppose it is man'smasterfulness glorying in triumph over the powerful creature it has tamed.Anyhow, I love to see these buffaloes amongst the lush grass.

But this is not what I started to say. I wanted to tell you how the leastthing distracts me nowadays from my duty to the _Sadhana_. In my lastletter[1] I told you of the bumble-bees which hover round me in somefruitless quest, to the tune of a meaningless humming, with tirelessassiduity.

[Footnote 1: Not included in this selection.]

They come every day at about nine or ten in the morning, dart up to mytable, shoot down under the desk, go bang on to the coloured glasswindow-pane, and then with a circuit or two round my head are off againwith a whizz.

I could easily have thought them to be departed spirits who had left thisworld unsatisfied, and so keep coming back to it again and again in theguise of bees, paying me an inquiring visit in passing. But I thinknothing of the kind. I am sure they are real bees, otherwise known, inSanskrit, as honey-suckers, or on still rarer occasions asdouble-proboscideans.

SHELIDAH,

_16th (Phalgun) February_ 1895.

We have to tread every single moment of the way as we go on living ourlife, but when taken as a whole it is such a very small thing, two hoursuninterrupted thought can hold all of it.

After thirty years of strenuous living Shelley could only supply materialfor two volumes of biography, of which, moreover, a considerable space istaken up by Dowden's chatter. The thirty years of my life would not filleven one volume.

What a to-do there is over this tiny bit of life! To think of the quantityof land and trade and commerce which go to furnish its commissariat alone,the amount of space occupied by each individual throughout the world,though one little chair is large enough to hold the whole of him! Yet,after all is over and done, there remains only material for two hours'thought, some pages of writing!

What a negligible fraction of my few pages would this one lazy day of mineoccupy! But then, will not this peaceful day, on the desolate sands by theplacid river, leave nevertheless a distinct little gold mark even upon thescroll of my eternal past and eternal future?

SHELIDAH,

_28th February_ 1895.

I have got an anonymous letter to-day which begins:

To give up one's self at the feet of another, is the truest of all gifts.

The writer has never seen me, but knows me from my writings, and goes onto say:

However petty or distant, the Sun[1]-worshipper gets a share of the Sun's rays. You are the world's poet, yet to me it seems you are my own poet!

[Footnote 1: Rabi, the author's name, means the Sun.]

and more in the same strain.

Man is so anxious to bestow his love on some object, that he ends byfalling in love with his own Ideal. But why should we suppose the idea tobe less true than the reality? We can never know for certain the truth ofthe substance underlying what we get through the senses. Why should thedoubt be greater in the case of the entity behind the ideas which are thecreation of mind?

The mother realises in her child the great Idea, which is in every child,the ineffableness of which, however, is not revealed to any one else. Arewe to say that what draws forth the mother's very life and soul isillusory, but what fails to draw the rest of us to the same extent is thereal truth?

Every person is worthy of an infinite wealth of love--the beauty of hissoul knows no limit.... But I am departing into generalities. What Iwanted to express is, that in one sense I have no right to accept thisoffering of my admirer's heart; that is to say, for me, seen within myeveryday covering, such a person could not possibly have had thesefeelings. But there is another sense in which I am worthy of all this, orof even greater adoration.

ON THE WAY TO PABNA,

_9th July_ 1895.

I am gliding through this winding little Ichamati, this streamlet of therainy season. With rows of villages along its banks, its fields of juteand sugar-cane, its reed patches, its green bathing slopes, it is like afew lines of a poem, often repeated and as often enjoyed. One cannotcommit to memory a big river like the Padma, but this meandering littleIchamati, the flow of whose syllables is regulated by the rhythm of therains, I am gradually making my very own....

It is dusk, the sky getting dark with clouds. The thunder rumblesfitfully, and the wild casuarina clumps bend in waves to the stormy gustswhich pass through them. The depths of bamboo thickets look black as ink.The pallid twilight glimmers over the water like the herald of some weirdevent.

I am bending over my desk in the dimness, writing this letter. I want towhisper low-toned, intimate talk, in keeping with this penumbra of thedusk. But it is just wishes like these which baffle all effort. Theyeither get fulfilled of themselves, or not at all. That is why it is asimple matter to warm up to a grim battle, but not to an easy,inconsequent talk.

SHELIDAH,

_14th August_ 1895.

One great point about work is that for its sake the individual has to makelight of his personal joys and sorrows; indeed, so far as may be, toignore them. I am reminded of an incident at Shazadpur. My servant waslate one morning, and I was greatly annoyed at his delay. He came up andstood before me with his usual _salaam_, and with a slight catch inhis voice explained that his eight-year-old daughter had died last night.Then, with his duster, he set to tidying up my room.

When we look at the field of work, we see some at their trades, sometilling the soil, some carrying burdens, and yet underneath, death,sorrow, and loss are flowing, in an unseen undercurrent, every day,--theirprivacy not intruded upon. If ever these should break forth beyond controland come to the surface, then all this work would at once come to a stop.Over the individual sorrows, flowing beneath, is a hard stone track,across which the trains of duty, with their human load, thunder their way,stopping for none save at appointed stations. This very cruelty of workproves, perhaps, man's sternest consolation.

KUSHTEA,

_5th October 1895_.

The religion that only comes to us from external scriptures never becomesour own; our only tie with it is that of habit. To gain religion within isman's great lifelong adventure. In the extremity of suffering must it beborn; on his life-blood it must live; and then, whether or not it bringshim happiness, the man's journey shall end in the joy of fulfilment.

We rarely realise how false for us is that which we hear from other lips,or keep repeating with our own, while all the time the temple of our Truthis building within us, brick by brick, day after day. We fail tounderstand the mystery of this eternal building when we view our joys andsorrows apart by themselves, in the midst of fleeting time; just as asentence becomes unintelligible if one has to spell through every word ofit.

When once we perceive the unity of the scheme of that creation which isgoing on in us, we realise our relation to the ever-unfolding universe. Werealise that we are in the process of being created in the same way as arethe glowing heavenly orbs which revolve in their courses,--our desires,our sufferings, all finding their proper place within the whole.

We may not know exactly what is happening: we do not know exactly evenabout a speck of dust. But when we feel the flow of life in us to be onewith the universal life outside, then all our pleasures and pains are seenstrung upon one long thread of joy. The facts: _I am, I move, Igrow_, are seen in all their immensity in connection with the fact thateverything else is there along with me, and not the tiniest atom can dowithout me.

The relation of my soul to this beautiful autumn morning, this vastradiance, is one of intimate kinship; and all this colour, scent, andmusic is but the outward expression of our secret communion. This constantcommunion, whether realised or unrealised, keeps my mind in movement; outof this intercourse between my inner and outer worlds I gain suchreligion, be it much or little, as my capacity allows: and in its light Ihave to test scriptures before I can make them really my own.

SHELIDAH,

_12th December 1895._

The other evening I was reading an English book of criticisms, full of allmanner of disputations about Poetry, Art, Beauty, and so forth and so on.As I plodded through these artificial discussions, my tired facultiesseemed to have wandered into a region of empty mirage, filled with thepresence of a mocking demon.

The night was far advanced. I closed the book with a bang and flung it onthe table. Then I blew out the lamp with the idea of turning into bed. Nosooner had I done so than, through the open windows, the moonlight burstinto the room, with a shock of surprise.

That little bit of a lamp had been sneering drily at me, like someMephistopheles: and that tiniest sneer had screened off this infinitelight of joy issuing forth from the deep love which is in all the world.What, forsooth, had I been looking for in the empty wordiness of the book?There was the very thing itself, filling the skies, silently waiting forme outside, all these hours!

If I had gone off to bed leaving the shutters closed, and thus missed thisvision, it would have stayed there all the same without any protestagainst the mocking lamp inside. Even if I had remained blind to it all mylife,--letting the lamp triumph to the end,--till for the last time I wentdarkling to bed,--even then the moon would have still been there, sweetlysmiling, unperturbed and unobtrusive, waiting for me as she has throughoutthe ages.